Stitches
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: According to this reality, Kirk's pregnant and Spock and McCoy are close friends. He has no doubts that he's hallucinating. Non-slash. Sequel to Five to One.
1. Rescues, Bugs, Pregnancies and Cliffs

**_Stitches_**

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** M or R for descriptive sickness, sexual references, disturbing imagery, extreme language, inflamatory topics, poorly informed opinions, and a lot more.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Star Trek_. If I did, this would not be posted under fan fiction

**Warning:** Probably the crudest story I have written to date. See above. It pretty much covers it. This is limited to almost shameless Jim whumping and consequential recovery. Really, there's not much of a plot.

**Dedicated:** To Potterwatch and JCassie241 for giving me ideas. Thanks.

**Author's Note:** This is a direct sequel to **Five to One** and is fairly crude, even to my mind, so be warned. It deals with part of the recovery process for the crew and for Jim Kirk. All and any spelling/grammar errors can be blamed on this marvelous website because I used their ABC check this time. Hopefully, it is not so bad. So, read and enjoy.

* * *

Something tickling the inside of his throat awakens him and he coughs a bit to rid himself of it. When that does not help-- actually, it exacerbates the situation-- he swallows only to find that his mouth is gravel dry. His tongue has a rock like consistency and the roof of his mouth is papery. It's an irritating state of affairs, one that he usually associates with being a little too friendly with the bottle, even though he knows he hasn't gotten drunk in two and a half months. No, this is actual, for real, possibly deadly, severe dehydration that he's enjoying and it fucking sucks for many reasons beyond the fact that his throat itches. He swallows air again and it hits his stomach hard, painfully and reminds him that desert mouth and throat are not the only things he's contending with. The air spreads into his stomach and sends him into such agony that he's curling into a ball in order to escape it. His knees touch his middle, making things worse, but he's out of energy to move more. Pressure is bad, he decides with an audible groan, pressure is very bad. His insides already have rearranged themselves, pressing against his skin in an attempt to escape into the big wide world and no matter how many times he reminds them that they won't survive long without his protection, they keep at it. Something is displacing them, he knows, forcing their impossible evacuation, shoving them away from where they fit. So when his other knee touches his middle, it hurts not because his stomach's sore but because he's literally just touched his stomach and flattened it further. His mind's blank for appropriate words so he decides that fuck sums up everything and repeats it over and over and over again, a profanity laden litany in his brain.

Someone is a good Samaritan and pulls his legs down, straitening him back out on a silky surface. If he wasn't slowly exploding, he would've been more pleased with the feeling of clean cloth on his body. It's been so long since he's felt something smooth and new touching him and even the typically rough material of the stretcher is heavenly. Anything would be when compared to the dirty rock floor he's spent the last seventy plus days curled up on. His skin, prickling and strangely numb towards his extremities, savors it as a gentle companion. Another pleasure, a cushion under his head, would never be taken for granted again. How strange it had been to not have a pillow; he never noticed before how difficult it was to sleep without one. It crackles as his head twitches back and forth but it gives him support and separates him from the hard floor. He won't just take it over nothing-- he'll take it with pleasure. If he never gets another pillow, it would be fine just to keep the thin, allergen free thing that's holding him now. He'll never turn his nose up to the pathetic objects Starfleet claims are standard cushions again.

There's a bug whizzing over his head which makes him nervous. The bugs here are bad news if they decide to bite; he's been stung once and once was all he needed to know that he never wanted to be stung again. When it happened, he did not swell up as per usual but instead found himself paranoid, delusional and unable to understand his surroundings. He'd relived some of his worst memories in vivid color as though the abuse was occurring to him right at the moment. Rationality-- not what Spock considered it to be, so full of logic and bullshit processing, but being able to reason and understand-- fled him and left him in a cold miserable place. In that time, the panda bit him more than once, the guards beat him in order to stop his shouts and he reenacted the most horrible things that ever happened to him, guest starring his own twisted mind. Coming to afterwards was just as bad because he felt weak, jittery and disturbed. Of course, the physical maladies did not help much either. He knows that he does not want that to happen again and when the buzzing comes close to his face, he tries to lift his arm to bat the beast away. Hit it before it can sting you and you are safe, he reminds himself as his body protests movement and his middle tries to erupt. He doubts he'll survive a mental beating in his condition.

The bug departs not because he smashes it but on its own accord and something grasps his hand. He gasps, frightened that the panda may have turned carnivorous while he lay feverishly dreaming of his crew finally saving him, and tries to tug it away. His fingers are nice, he likes them where they are and he doubts that the facility he's being held it is able to reattach limbs. Bones could, he thinks as the thing holds on hard-- or maybe he's not really pulling that well-- but Bones is not here and neither is his beautiful medical technology. Would he still be able to captain with one arm? He doesn't know which makes him a little bit frantic and gives him enough strength to yank his fingers free. He rolls to the side, slowly, and his stomach touches the ground. It thrusts him into a stupor where there are little bits of Jim Kirk everywhere, drifting and screaming and begging for someone, anyone, to give him a goddamn hypo. The buzzing bug comes back, clearly trying to decide which piece of him will be the tastiest and settles on a section of his neck. It makes a weird hiss-click sound and he awaits for the torment to worsen. A second passes, then another and his body starts to reassemble itself. A full minute goes by and the next thing he knows, he's whole and not seeing Tarsus or his step father or lightning storms. In fact, he feels almost okay, his midsection a minor discomfort and all his little hurts distant memories. The bug, silent this time, stings him again and his chest loosens-- he had not realized how tight it was before-- so that he can breath more comfortably. What a friendly little bastard, he thinks. Why hadn't this one stung him in the first place? It would've been nice. Another pinch in his neck doesn't do much and neither does the fourth but that's okay. He's thankful for the little bit he's been given and even peels open his eyes so he can see his savior.

It's not a bug. No, hovering over him is a person-- a human person-- who looks angry, frightened, determined, frantic and dismayed all at once with his face wrinkled and his eyebrows dipped down. There's another person next to him, blond, equally concerned, and blue eyed. She's handing the person things in rapid succession and he's using them even faster. A mask is fixed onto Kirk's face, which is annoying, and a penlight-- fucking penlight from hell, who uses fucking penlights anymore, goddamn it-- flickers across his eyes. The person leans in closer, a little relief adding to his expression, and Kirk recognizes him.

"Bones," he acknowledges into the mask and is sure that it sounds more like a mutilated cat trying to meow. Could it really be Bones? Or is it all a trick? He remembers walking across the bridge, being let free, but he also remembers hallucinating his life on the wall. It's so hard for him to separate reality from dreams anymore that he's wondering if maybe he was stung by another bug earlier and this is just a cruel trick. There's no way to be certain if previous bug stinging is an experience to go by. Previously he'd actually thought he'd been in the given situations, actually moved with fake people and touched fake things and received fake wounds. Oh God, if this could be real, how relieved he would be to know that his friend is here, now, fixing whatever is wrong with him with Christine Chapel, best goddamn nurse in the world because it's only the best on the Enterprise, at his side. But he cannot be certain about anything. His throat itches and he coughs, unstoppably, dragging in sickly wheezes and getting a bit lightheaded. At least, this sting, if it is that, does not cause him as much pain. He doesn't hurt really at all.

Bones slows his actions and looks at him, really, truly looks at him and his entire expression relaxes. It's still worried, upset, and everything but now, the relief is predominate. He lets his hand stop for a moment on Kirk's upper arm and squeezes. Is it just Kirk, or are his eyes filled with tears? He speaks and it comes out fairly warbled but Kirk can understand it. This is not a memory like the bug gave him before. This is something fully unique, something he's never heard before. These are not inflections he's used to from his friend, not emotions he could apply to Leonard McCoy on his own.

"We've got you, now," Bones says. "It'll be okay, kid. It's all going to be okay."

He's not sure he agrees but he doesn't voice that. He focuses on the fingers, rough pads touching his arm, and realizes that they are warm. He can even feel a pulse thrumming in them, a steady thump, thump, thump. It's reassuring and he's tempted to think that this has actually happened, that he's going home to his Enterprise and his people. His vision sputters suddenly, greying, blackening then coming back into focus and by then, Chapel's switched sides, no longer next to McCoy but on her own side of his body. Her smile wavers, twists and Christine Chapel, the bitch from hell, the snot, the robot nurse, the girl who resists him-- not like Uhura does but just to prove that he's as sexy as he thinks he is and yes, there are women who won't ever give in-- at every turn, holds his numb hand and cries. It's silent tears, not really sad but, like Bones's face, a mixture of so many things at once that he can't decipher what it means. He's not sure he wants to-- he's baffled by the reaction because Christine Chapel doesn't cry about anything. Kill a puppy, kick a baby, chop off limbs, have people pass; Chapel's immovable, steady and cold. And now, she's crying like somebody informed her there's no such thing as Santa Claus or that God's actually a joke made up by the Corporation of Society. He must be out of his mind; it's the only explanation.

He drifts a bit because no one engages him beyond her and Bones. Bones is busy once more with his tricorder and Christine is silently rubbing his hand. He cannot feel her kneading it, but he's watching her so he knows it's happening. His hearing's gotten a bit better with passing time and he's aware of shuffling feet on the floor and of low voices. In the corners of his eyes, he imagines flashes of uniforms but has decided it's all part of the elaborate hoax in his mind. He'll take it though, just as he did the memories, because it's better than seeing an annoyed animal and grey prison walls. It's zen like, soothing and, honestly, almost what his heart desires. In his perfect world, he'd be sitting in the Captain's chair and exploring distant space as he was all those weeks ago. Being an invalid at the mercy of medical personnel with only the vaguest sensation that the rest of the crew is near certainly isn't that but it's close enough. If he's dying-- and there's no denying it if he's been stung again-- then he can happily pass this way. He doesn't want to because he wants the actuality of everyone instead of his mind's eye but at least he's not dying alone.

Spock appears-- he was wondering when the Vulcan would show up in a half-hearted, hazy manner-- next to Bones, as unmoved as always. His long, pale hands hover over Kirk's stomach and his eyebrows arch. McCoy looks away from Kirk for just a moment and their gazes meet. Silent communication is happening there, not the usual bitter fighting, but honest to God-- and he wouldn't've believed it if he hadn't seen it for himself-- actual, relevant wordless conversation. He did not think either of them were capable of it, as Bones is prickly as a pineapple and Spock, while he claims to be neutral, has the most passive aggressive attitude Kirk's ever seen. This is further proof that he's not seeing anything real, that this has come from his body's slow descent into death. They are both his friends, his good, true, loyal friends, but they will never be friends themselves. There's no place of relation for them, no way that they can set aside their differences and accept each other. McCoy can't stand Spock's ability to trump emotions with logic and Spock finds McCoy too volatile. Theirs is an epic, unending battle until judgement day.

"How is the Captain's status, Doctor?" Spock says aloud. His hand actually comes to rest on Kirk's stomach and sends a ripple of discomfort flowing through him. He squirms, Spock raises his hand away and McCoy's fingers wrap about Kirk's shoulders.

"I need to get him into surgery immediately," is Bones's response. "How much longer?"

"Clearance is... slow going," Spock informs him. "The current government is double checking the treaty once more and determining whether or not it was broken when the Captain was returned. There is some question about us having crossed into neutral territory." His eyes are again on Kirk's stomach. "How much longer can he wait?"

Bones runs a shaky hand down his face and his eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion and tears. "Spock, I'll be plain with you. He's dying. I'm not sure if I could save him if I got him into surgery right here, right now. Even if I could go back in time and do it a couple of days ago, a week ago, I'm not sure it would've make a shit of a difference." His breath goes in shuddering and comes out choking.

"I do not understand," the Vulcan says though Kirk has a suspicion that he understands fine and is only saying it to pry out more information. After all, even in his semi-delirious state, Kirk knows what this means. Bones is an elite surgeon, a damn good doctor and a fine diagnostician. If he thinks that this is the end for Kirk, then it's the end. Too bad, he thinks, his eyes half-mast as he observes them. It would've been nice to have sex one more time before he died, or to call his mom and say that he loved her, or to respond to Sam's letter, lying in his inbox for months, or to tell Chapel that he really did think she was beautiful, not just sexy or to beat Spock at Chess or-- there were so many other ors. But everyone has regrets when they die, he concludes. His greatest one is that he's going out like a bit of a pussy, lying in a holding cell, dying from a bug bite, dehydration, lack of nutrients and general abuse. He would've preferred epic battle or something ludicrous like tribbles. Too many people have died due to neglect as prisoners of war. He doesn't want to be one of them.

"The tricorder keeps saying he's pregnant," Bones's voice cracks as he talks. And he scowls internally because he's not fucking pregnant. He couldn't be. The last bit of sex he had was with a girl who was human and that was months ago. The panda never violated him, the guards hadn't touched him and unless the bricks he slept on somehow inseminated him, he knows he can't be pregnant. "Obviously not true," Bones continues and he thinks, damn straight. "All it can pick up is something growing inside of him. It's right-- there's something growing in his stomach or intestines which is pushing all of his other organs out of the way. It's literally crushing him from the inside out, sucking all the nutrients out of his system, draining him. I don't think it's sentient or humanoid. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say it was a plant but," and he suddenly stops and ducks his head. "Goddamn it."

"I see," Spock says in that tone that means quite a bit more. Chapel's stroking his forehead and he lets himself focus on her, how she isn't pretty when she cries but that's okay, and how he wishes she wasn't crying. He'd rather see her as she normally is, unmade up, her hair pulled into a messy bun, a PADD in her hand as she swoops from bed to bed. He likes her that way, not like this, not mourning. Honestly, he finds it all to be uncomfortable because he hates being fussed over and mourning for the loss of him is definitely a form of fussing when he's still alive, hearing and seeing everything that's occurring. "You will be back in your sick bay within thirty minutes, Doctor." And Spock's gone again, leaving him in the company of one very upset doctor and a weepy nurse. He wishes the Vulcan would return because he's the only one who seems remotely the same. Even with the strange eye talk he had with Bones, he's more Spock-like than Chapel is Chapel-like or Bones is Bones-like. He's actually reassuring in his detachment from the situation because he's almost real. It must've been a slightly different bug that got him but the same basic concept. Instead of torturing him with the past, this bug's poison tortures him by warping what he thinks he knows into something else. He's not sure what's worse.

His eyes close and he lies in limbo, jostled only by Chapel's petting and McCoy's occasional shifting of his person. At some point, he's not really tracking time anymore, he's moved so that he's partially propped up. This is not pleasant-- it makes his stomach feel doubly tight and he trembles with half-present pain-- but that does not seem to matter to whoever's holding him. He wants to lie flat again so his last minutes, hours, whatever he has left, will at least be within reach of a mattress and pillow, even if they are a hallucination. The body he's pressed against is thin, almost bony, and too warm to be considered pleasant. It makes him acutely aware of how he can't feel his hands-- because he's trying to use them to get away-- and how his heart's doing a strange pattering in his chest-- beat, beat, pause, flutter, beat-- and that despite the fact that he really, really hates this, it's helping him take in air. His arm flops like a half-dead fish on a dock and then stops obeying his commands all together. His last comfort's been taken from him; he'd hoped, foolishly, that he'd at least be allowed a bed to die on. But he must've been too bad of a person to deserve even that; he never really thought on the idea of just desserts, that in the end, you pay for all your crimes. It's resting heavy on him at this point, calling out to him and saying, "This is for every fight you started for no reason, every item you stole, every car you crashed, every girl whose heart you broke, every person you betrayed." Maybe he should've been Catholic; he's heard confession prevents this sort of bullshit.

It's all interrupted by something creeping up his gullet. He tries to swallow it but even that basic reflex is not functioning properly. It continues it's ascent with slow and calculated movements, simultaneously strangling the air from his lungs and sitting on his heart. His heart's uneven staccato turns into a sort of drunken tap dance where the dancer is a wino monkey who's never grasped the biped idea. Then, the substance has enough and spews out of his mouth, onto him, onto the person holding him and probably anyone in the general vicinity. He doesn't have to be a doctor or even awake to know that whatever just happened was bad because it gets very loud around him just after the incident occurs. Everything tumbles about, words, bodies, emotions, sensations. Some of them brush against him, some of them don't; it's difficult to figure out what exactly each of the things are and he's lost the will to work at it. Any second now, he's going to come to in his box, with his animal roommate and pass on painfully into whatever exists after death. He's rather hopeful that it's a big, blank nothing so that he can actually get some rest. Maybe that's pessimistic, or depressed, but he can admit it's what he wants. God, heaven, angels, eternal paradise can suck it; he wants to sleep.

_Focus on me, Captain._

He knows it's Spock reaching out to him which also informs him that this is the hallucination's last ditch attempt to keep him interested. If you don't play with the delusion, sometimes the delusion goes away. Feeding into it is what makes it stronger and more sincere. But this voice is pretty damn compelling and the only thing he's thought might be real in this fantasy is Spock. He wavers, teetering on the edge of a cliff which promises departure from where ever he is. Could it hurt to turn and speak? It's a valid question and he's willing to entertain it, as exhausted as he's become. Actual logical process is almost gone and what better to bounce ideas off than a Vulcan, even if it's just a Vulcan constructed out of his mind. He doesn't have much left to lose-- sanity's pretty much kissed him goodbye and life is seconds away from ending.

_Come back. _

Fuck off, he replies. Come back to what? Prison? Pain? Christ, Spock, that's hardly logical.

_You have been liberated, Captain. I am only requesting that you hold on to life._

Huh? he says. What do you mean 'liberated'?

_We have secured your freedom. We only await for permission to be transported back to the Enterprise. It is but seconds away. _

Wow. He's genuinely surprised and allows that to flow over the bond and at the same time, is completely incredulous. Too bad none of this is real.

_Jim, my friend_-- and those words confirm once and for all that this is just another branch of the hallucination-- _this is not a figment of your mind. It is I, Spock, here with Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel and seven other members of the Enterprise crew. How can I convince you of this?_

You can't, he tells fake Spock honestly. Sorry.

And he let's himself fall over the cliff, into the safety of rest, sleep and nothing. If someone catches him before he hits the bottom, he doesn't feel it.

* * *

The next chapter will be up once I have a moment to edit it thoroughly. It's not quite to my liking yet. It should be no later than Wednesday.


	2. Stitches, Masks, Plants and Mushrooms

Thank you for the reviews, the alerts and the favorites. Here's part two which initially was the end but expanded to the point that I wanted to split it in two. So, technically, it's part two A with part two B still under construction. Uh-- yes-- enjoy.

* * *

Sore; he wakes up sore like he actually fell an extreme distance, fractured every bone in his body and spent days getting his bones knitted together. His skin feels like one big bruise, from his tingling fingers to the back of his neck, everything pulsates with his skipping heart. It's nothing, of course, compared to the dull ache in his middle. It's the flu times ten and he can tell he's on painkillers, so it could easily be the flu times a hundred. Everything inside him is strung out and tired as though he's been simultaneously vomiting and crapping his guts out for a week. Organs he didn't realize he possessed, or if he did know they were there, they'd certainly never informed him of it before, are reminding him of how much they hate him. His pancreas pounds his abdominal wall while his appendix tap dances over his liver and spleen. His intestines have knotted themselves about his stomach, his kidneys and gall bladder and are slowly squeezing them just to see if they'll pop. It's not exactly a happy state to be in but he figures, lazily because his brain's not up to moving fast without spinning circles, it's better than what must be horrific agony without the happy drugs. He shifts a little, hearing the rustle of blankets as he does so and feeling a tug across his middle from below his navel all the way up to his rib cage. It's familiar to him, the pull of recently regenerated skin that's still pink, fresh, new and not as elastic as it will be once he starts to move. Strange, he doesn't remember getting sliced up but his memory's kind of foggy so he doesn't trust it. As of late, his imagination and reality have often switched places so he could've easily have done any number of things-- taken on the weird, gangly thing that's a few cells over, gotten on the wrong side of one of the guards-- who all carry knives even though they aren't supposed to-- or fallen onto the spikes that line the moat around the prison.

Of course, it's strange that they used a autosuture on him because the last time he cut himself, there hadn't been one. He was bleeding pretty profusely then and they used old fashion stitches to patch the wound up and bound it in clean white gauze. Being tossed unceremoniously back into the cell dirtied the bandages immediately and it was by the grace of his own immune system that he did not get sick. They never returned him to the infirmary so they could check up on his progress, never even gave him fresh water to drizzle over the red, puffy wound. He healed solo with an ugly scar once the stitches dissolved. It ran from his wrist to his elbow, right along the bone, little crosses marking where they'd treated him like a ripped pair of pants. On the bright side, it had made him less of a target for his fellow inmates-- scars spelled bad ass in this prison. He forced himself to think of it this way instead of as a mar on his otherwise appealing physique. Girls dig the scars, he thought at night as he leaned against the wall. Scars are so rare these days they are cool. This way you won't get ass-raped in the shower. It's good. It's good. Even though, deep down, he knew it wasn't good at all and he hated looking at it. Suddenly, he wonders if the tug on his stomach is actually stitches, like his arm, and if now he'll have a horrid, long mark down his center. Not turning one's arm to the side is one thing. Not looking in a mirror ever again with his shirt off is another. He won't be able to stand it; it's completely unacceptable.

His eyes open, as he thinks this, and don't focus. This does not matter because it won't take much vision to view the damage done to him. Swiftly as his torpid limbs will allow, he rips away the blankets, ignoring the alarms over his bed and the tugs from the intravenous he's hooked up to. There are scrubs on his body which he lifts up just as violently, his panic augmented by the sound of someone approaching. People mean a needle, so much worse than hypos, in the jugular which will either knock him out or make him wish for unconsciousness. His hands paw at his middle but there's no roughness of wire, only the slight pinkness of skin, dainty and soft, healing. It hurts when he touches it, throbs deep into him, but he has to make sure that this is real, that he isn't really laced up like a sleeve to an outfit. His vision is grey on the edges, white near the center and blurred everywhere else but his fingers tell him that he's a whole person before someone stops his frenzied motions.

"Easy, Jim, take it slow," Bones is haggard, his hair greyer than Jim remembered, his eyes dull. "That's it. Lie back down. Deep breaths. That's it. Steady. No, no, slow, Jim." His hand is splayed over someone else's chest while the other is pinned to the bed. He wants to raise it, wants to trace the tender mark again because he's still not a hundred percent certain, but the grip on him is iron clad. "Breathe with me. In, out, in, out. Good."

Between gasps, he tells Bones. "I don't want stitches." And the little bird called rational doesn't alight to inform him that he's not in prison anymore. "Please."

"I promise no stitches," Bones soothes. "Not one. I won't even put stitches in your clothes."

He's shaking a bit, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "They stitched my arm. It scarred. Looks fucking gross."

"I saw," Bones isn't looking at him, but up at the screen above his head. He's still got Kirk's hand on his chest. "We can fix it, kid. It'll be gone like it was never there."

He can't comprehend that and suddenly, he can't comprehend how McCoy's here in prison with him. Oh God, he hopes that Bones hasn't been captured too. He can't protect himself and protect McCoy, especially if McCoy's not in the same cell block as he is. They'll never see each other and anything can happen in this place. McCoy can fight, it's true, but he's not as tough as he likes to exude. His heart patters against his ribs weakly and he's out of sink with the chest rising and falling under his palm. His lungs won't stop demanding air even when they are filled to burst. The alarm over his bed starts going off again. His ears ring in unison with it, loud and piercing, interrupting his thought process. He has stitches in his stomach and scars on his arms and pain, pain, pain...

Then, there's the hiss-click of the bug and he's gone again.

It's a cycle like this for an indeterminable amount of time. He doubts he's ever really lucid so much as aware of his surroundings and he doesn't have to be a genius to know that those are two very different things. Sometimes, his eyes are open and he's staring directly at someone he knows but he cannot figure out who they are. Other times, his eyes are closed and he can recognize the same person by his or her footsteps. There are moments when he's so scared, so utterly terrified that they're putting needles into him that he could scream but his voice is minimal, almost gone, so he whimpers and resorts to begging whoever comes to his rescue to not put stitches in, please, anything but the stitches, anything at all. It's difficult for him to understand why everyone around him is so upset when he's like this because he thinks it's a legitimate issue. He even tries to explain it to the lovely blond who holds his hand and brushes his overlong hair away from his face but it merely causes tears to drip down her face. She cries a lot, he notes feverishly, at some point, when he's too tired to even raise his head. Everything's heavy, warm and oppressive; he's kicking his sheets off more often than not, frustrated that she insists on pulling them back up before the chills strike him and he wants them. He thinks he's the cause of her upset, too, and regrets it because he knows she's beautiful and tears make her face patchy and pink. He tries not to talk when she's around but it's hard because the words slip out on their own. The words cause all sorts of issues, such as the man with dark, craggy, desperate features punching the wall near his bed. The only person it doesn't bother has pointed ears and a mask for a face. He sits and listens and never reacts at all which disturbs Kirk at best. He doesn't try to assure Kirk that there are no stitches and that there never will be; he's just there, like a ghost, and watches.

"Did they stitch you so you can't talk?" he whispers through parched lips during one of the mask man's visits.

The man, for the first time, shakes his head and speaks. "No, Jim." And he leaves. He does not come again.

Other faces come, go, talk, don't talk, press kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, squeeze his hand; it becomes a game of guess who. He knows them a third of the times they're there; the rest of the time, it's just a new guard, a new warden, a new person, someone strange, someone frightening, someone he pleads with not to cry.

And then, he's awake and the confusion's gone. His brain isn't exactly razor sharp-- he'd venture on it being like a very dull butter knife that can't really slice bread but might stand a chance against mayo-- but he can tell who he is, where he is and-- this is almost exciting-- that it's all real. He's lying on his side in the sick bay, his bed secluded from the rest of the biobeds. It's very quiet, the lights dimmed, the area still; the only movement is his own as he slowly rolls onto his back and stairs at the ceiling. Above him is white, beautiful, clean, pure white; he never realized before how much he took clean and neat for granted. The sheet pulled up to his shoulders is infirmary standard but comfortable for him and the bed, usually not his first choice to lie on, is blissful. Even the tug of the intravenous cannot upset him; he's finally out of that hellhole he lived in for so long, freed from the chains of unfair imprisonment; he's finally back with his friends, home. He takes in a deep breath of antiseptic air and lets it out slowly, contentedly, his mouth dry as a desert, his tongue a brittle stick between his lips. God, even that pleases him, because he knows if he needs it, there's clean, fresh water somewhere nearby and he can drink as much as he wants. It's enough to let him go back to sleep content and wake up with extra strength.

From this point, he's coherent when crew members visit; he doesn't always remember them coming but he's not ranting at them while they are there. He can even chat with them in a sandpaper voice, stumbling over his words a lot but the broken sentences are a step above where he was before. They seem inordinately pleased by these pathetic attempts at speech, every single one from an Ensign from Engineering-- whom he only spoke to once or twice before-- to Uhura who marches down two days after he's able to appreciate life and gives him a hug. It's gentle and sweet; when she pulls away, she got a fierce sort of look on her face. He raises his eyebrows at her.

"I'm very glad you're back," she states. "Please don't make me regret that by saying something stupid."

His lips twitch and he rasps, "Never, Lieutenant. Glad to be back." She squeezes his hand and plays a game of rummy with him. He's not a particularly challenging opponent and actually falls asleep midway through but she doesn't seem to care.

And that is a sign that some things never change because for them, it's tradition to play rummy when one or the other is ill or injured. It's a good thing, too, as so much else is unfamiliar to him. First off, there are people he doesn't know, new since his departure. One of them is a nurse who frequents the day shifts. She's nice enough, plump and older with a motherly disposition. She dotes on him, helps him shave off the mess of a beard on his face when he can sit up and tells him he looks dashing afterwards. But she's something that's out of place for him and as friendly as she is, he cannot warm up to her. He's polite and she's sweet but in the end, he prefers to be alone than with her. She makes him feel like he's been brought back to a different world, one that he doesn't quite fit into. He has to accept things have changed, reasonably, because he's been gone a very long time. But physical recovery makes it difficult to step into mental recovery so he pretends like he's safe and sound in the Enterprise from two and a half months ago and ignores her whenever he can.

If only it were that simple. He soon discovers that it will take more than just turning a momentary blind eye to new crew members to keep up the illusion; the people he knew have become strangers to him as well. Most markedly, he sees it in McCoy who is consistently checking how his organs are recovering, making sure that he's gotten every bit of the plant out of him but not interacting with him when he can avoid it. The doctor's original deduction was accurate-- the green shoots they fed him in prison contained seeds of the plant. People from the planet pass the seeds without issues, just like humans pass watermelon seeds or apple seeds. But he's not like them, just a slight difference in the acidity of his innards and the composition of his organs. He actually laughs when McCoy tells him he had one rooted in his stomach because it's just like an old wives tale come to life. It's a story to tell his children when and if he ever produces any. But the amusement abruptly ends when he sees the creases on Bones's face and how the doctor doesn't smile but squeezes the tricorder until his hands shake. It's all fun and games until someone loses a kidney and he's one down and lucky that he's not short a spleen and appendix, too. His stomach, apparently, will never be the same again, even with McCoy's exemplary surgical techniques. It nearly killed you, Jim, McCoy says abruptly. And Kirk concedes that it isn't a funny matter. This new Bones does not smile very much, does not talk really at all. His face is lined and tired in ways that make Kirk think of an old man, not of someone who's just entered his thirties. His dark hair has liberally been sprinkled grey and when Kirk asks exactly what happened since he left, he gets a very vague sort of answer. It's the first day he's allowed to eat-- soupy oatmeal which tastes disgusting but at least he can spoon it into his mouth-- and he nearly flings his bowl away in frustration.

"What do you mean, political bullshit?" he demands. "Bones, you look like it's been years, not months." When his friend doesn't elaborate, he pushes, "Please. What the hell's happened?"

Bones's tongue flicks over his lips and his hands clench at his sides. "Jim, trust me when I say that those two and a half months were the two longest of my life including the first few after my divorce. If we never, ever go back to that place again, it'll be too soon." His knuckles are white. "It's... Christ, kid. It's enough to make a man retire." When he asks if that's what Bones is going to do, he doesn't get a response.

He's in a funk after this where food, people and life are not very interesting because he's trying to wrap his head around what's happened. He's got a huge gap in what's occurred due to incarceration and Garren's fill-in-the-blanks aren't helping. Garren told him about basics, about whether or not Starfleet was nearby but he never mentioned any specific political situations. At the time, he was grateful for anything at all, but now he's wondering if Garren was screwing with him. Or maybe everyone here is messing with him. The last thing he knows for certain is that they were allowed to land and speak with the High Council. Things, in his opinion, went fairly well. And then for no apparent reason, he was being dragged off in the middle of the night to a prison cell. His information ends there beyond the casual, "Yes, Jim Kirk, your Starfleet is still nearby" and "No, there has been no request to release you."

And because no one seems to want to give him details, he's letting his imagination run wild in order to define "political bullshit." and spends far more time with his eyes closed than open. It's bothersome to the medical staff because he's suddenly showing no interest in eating-- despite the fact that he was very excited at the prospect only hours before-- and doesn't want visitors. They're forced to turn away not only Uhura, who's come by for a rematch, but also Scotty, who hasn't been by at all. The second day in, Doctor Bellino-- psychiatrist, new, he doesn't like him-- says he's suffering from post-traumatic stress and it's natural. He gives the finger to the doctor's turned back for the label and sleeps for the rest of the day. Then he's awake most of the night, ignoring the applesauce provided for him at some ungodly hour and not even bothering to look at Chapel's gorgeous legs because she'll stoically pretend he's not there. By morning, he's so engrossed in trying to put together what's gone on that he cannot be disturbed for much of anything. When he's coaxed, he takes a bit of bland soup and toast but it's only because the day nurse is working really hard. Otherwise, he would've left it until it grew fungus. God knows that's what he feels like: a mushroom, kept in the dark and fed shit.

* * *

Part three (the final bit, to be certain) will be up sometime before Saturday. It just needs the kinks worked out.


	3. Puzzles, Solutions, Recoveries and Scars

And, here is the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted for your support. As always, be lenient about spelling mistakes (more so now that I am depending on the website to spell check) and enjoy!  


* * *

He dozes, awakens, ignores, ponders, comes up with fairly wild ideas and some equally boring ones. He's got conspiracies, plans and plots on his side but none of them can withstand any deep reasoning so he lets them drop away one by one. Day three passes slowly as he keeps trying to fit the missing piece into the solid blue puzzle titled "What happened to my crew?" but without a reference point, it's completely impossible. When the nurse offers him something new to eat, plain toast and rice, he eats it at her insistence and ten minutes later is sick. His stomach burns with dissatisfaction as he empties all of it into a provided bowl and he gets the pleasure of being annoyed and miserable. By the evening, he's down to just drinking because he can't keep down solids and by the next morning, he's struggling with even that. Bones, whom he hasn't seen since their talk, turns up mid-afternoon and studies him like a science project. He has the decency to look concerned as he reads monitors and nurses reports and Doctor Bellino's mental gibberish. Then Kirk throws up on his boots-- fuck, he didn't mean to do that because he really just wanted to avoid personal contact all together-- and it hurts. Bones doesn't curse-- usually he would too, Kirk thinks as he lets out a groan born of irritation more than pain-- just calls a nurse over to clean the mess and frowns up at the screen. As he does, Kirk allows himself to look, take in the tired, the worried and the grey. Maybe McCoy does need to retire. Maybe he needs to find a planet (other than Earth as Jocelyn took the whole damn thing) to settle down on, find a new wife and start a new family. After all, he never did like space, never wanted adventure; he just needed an escape and the military seemed as good an option as any. Would Kirk be a good friend if he didn't allow McCoy to do what was best for him? He shifts in the bed, trying to ease the ache in his middle. No, no he wouldn't be, he concludes when McCoy disappears without a word, but he's never considered himself to be all that good. Or a friend; his first real experiences with friends came here, anyway, so he's not a professional in the business. He's allowed to make mistakes, like being inordinately selfish and demanding Bones stay. Right? The a little voice in the back of his mind that says, no, sorry, Bucko, that's not the way it works.

"Okay, kid," McCoy says, startling him out of his reverie. He's drawn a chair over and organized a group of hyposprays on the bedside table. "Here's our options. Right now, you're stomach will not be able to handle extended periods of vomiting. So, I can give you a bunch of drugs which will put you out, calm the nausea and heal your stomach lining. Or, we can go down Doctor Bellino's suggested route where I give you one injection to help you keep food down, bring you something to eat and we can talk about whatever's bothering you. He seems to think, god knows why, that you'll be less recalcitrant with me."

"Must have been misinformed that we were friends," Kirk responds, his stomach back flipping at the thought of food and conversation but equally concerned by the number of shots he's going to receive as an alternative.

McCoy's expression darkens minutely. "You implying something?"

He's tired, sick and not up for an argument. "No, Bones, I'm not. Just give me the shots." And he tries to convince himself it's not quitting the situation. He's just trying to avoid saying things he'll regret, things that can't be fixed through regeneration, hypos or stitches. His tongue's loose and he's more than liable to throw in barbs without realizing that he doesn't mean them. His stomach crawls into his throat and out his mouth again but he's polite enough to make sure it's on the opposite side of the bed. Because, even if they're not happy with each other, Bones doesn't deserve to be puked on twice. All the same, he doesn't deny his actions are a bit passive aggressive considering there's a nice, clean bowl nearby for him but he pretends like he didn't have the time to grab it.

Bones rolls him onto his back once he's done and pages the nurse again while Kirk awaits the poke of the hypo in his neck. When it doesn't come, he peels open his eyes to see McCoy sitting and watching him, his gaze distant, his lips pursed. There's a pit of guilt growing steadily inside him, filling with all the unsaid words that make up the obvious issues. He clears his throat a bit, winces and tries to think of what to say. The words that escape him aren't particularly eloquent but he's used to that by now so he isn't embarrassed.

"It's all different, Bones. Everything."

Bones pulls at his chin, still staring into the distance. "Things change, it's part of life."

"But it happened so suddenly," he whispers. It did for him. One moment, everyone's as they've always been. The next, he's here.

"Jim, it was two and a half months," Bones says heavily. "A lot can change in two and a half months."

"I know," he says. "I just... I don't understand how." His stomach's on the revolt again so he pauses to snatch the bowl and gag up the last bit of water and bile left for him. There's red flecks in it this time, mixing with yellowy green fluids. He grimaces, his hands shaking now. "You turned in your resignation yet?" He's having a hard time setting the bowl down again.

"What resignation?" Bones asks, sounding genuinely surprised. Two seconds later, something must click. "Oh Christ, Jim-- I'm not fucking retiring yet. Not while your still flying your ass around in space. Who's going to make sure you don't fall to pieces?" There are footsteps as McCoy rounds the bed and takes the bowl from him. He sinks back onto the pillows. "God knows, Spock can't keep up with you half the time and when he does, you just get into more trouble." He puts a tentative hand on Kirk's shoulder. "I'm tired, Jim, but I wouldn't work my ass off to get you back just so I could leave."

Then he gives Kirk three of the threatened hypos and sits with him through the night. It's as close as they'll get to apologizing.

He's re-learning walking-- damn embarrassing because Libby, the new nurse, is helping him do it (Chapel refuses to touch him or even look at him if she can avoid it and McCoy's sleeping) and cooing like a mother with a toddler-- when Spock comes to 'personally observe his level of recovery' for the first time since he's been coherent. He's clinging to Libby's arm, his knees quaking like he's run ten miles even though he's barely taken ten steps and she's sagging under his minimal weight. During his time in jail, he lost at least thirty pounds and since, he's dropped even more. His stomach's finally under control-- or, mostly, anyway-- so he's been living off a diet of soup, oatmeal and some mushy substance that Bones insists gives him nutrients. It's not enough to promote weight gain or even maintain what little mass he has. But even at one hundred thirty pounds, Libby's not able to support him as he fights to remain vertical so Spock is forced to swoop in and take him from her grasp. She's very grateful-- smiling and panting-- and allows Spock to continue the therapy for her. Kirk's not exactly happy about it but he intends to endure. It's better for this way, both because Spock is absolutely steady and because Spock is one of the few things that has stayed the same on the ship. The only thing different about Spock is now he's the Captain instead of the first mate, and even so, he insists that he's only acting Captain now that Kirk is back.

"How's it going, Spock?" Kirk wheezes as they turn to shuffle back towards his bed. He's attached to Spock like a drunken prom date and it's just barely enough to keep him on his feet.

Spock's watching him closely, his eyebrows knitted in a way that screams displeasure. "The ship is functioning on optimal levels." Kirk's legs turn to pudding and he's forced to snatch Kirk under the arms. Once Kirk's standing again, he continues. "Since our recovery of your person, we've been given light missions consisting of basic scouting in well-known locations."

"Great," he manages, both to the answer which tells him absolutely nothing and to the fact that he's reached his bed again. It's frustrating being so weak, so dependant upon being horizontal. At least now, he's allowed his own blankets and pillows and he can wear something other than scrubs. His old clothes do not fit so he's borrowing from someone else's closet. Still, it's better. "Great." He settles back on the bed. "Now, I have to ask you something very important, Spock, and I want an honest, complete answer."

"Of course, Captain," Spock replies, seating himself in the chair near the bed. "Anything."

He takes in a deep breath, winces as it still hurts sometimes, and says, "What the fuck happened between the time I got tossed in that hole and you guys getting me out?"

Spock does not react like Bones did or like anyone else has in the past. He crosses his legs and folds his hands and tells Kirk. "We worked diligently for all of the seventy eight point three days they held you to create and gain the approval of a treaty between the Federation and the planet Frane, Jim. It was... an arduous task for many of the people on this vessel. The Franians only agreed to receive us because they needed leverage to make their demands. They intended on keeping you until the Federation removed all vessels from their orbit and from their neighboring solar systems. The Federation would not do so as key allies lie within this area and retreat would mean leaving said planets open to threat."

"And one captain isn't worth that risk," Kirk observes. He doesn't think he's so special as to require special treatment. He is only one captain out of many.

Spock nods. "Affirmative. Starfleet's stance was Frane had nothing over them and, as you well know, they do not negotiate with terrorists. They deduced that no offensive actions needed to be taken but that careful observation should continue."

"And they were just so threatening sitting up there that the Franians gave in two months later?" Kirk asks, incredulously.

"No, Jim," Spock says, his voice mild as always. "Myself, Lieutenant Uhura, Doctor McCoy, Lieutenant Chekov and Lieutenant Sulu attended the High Council as ambassadors from Starfleet and the Federation a second time. Our efforts began actual peace negotiations. There was very little time to sit or to wait; as I told you, we worked for the entirety of your imprisonment to secure your release. It took an average of one hundred twenty hours a week from forty six percent of the crew to negotiate, compose and distribute the treaty. Sixteen percent were left to the basic maintenance of the ship while the other thirty eight became either Federation representatives to Frane's High Council or personal emissaries for Frane to the Federation. We drafted three hundred twenty five versions of the treaty before one was approved by both the Federation and the High Council and it took fourteen days for both to pass through legislation. By the time we were allowed to have you back, the terms of your release were so complicated that we had to provide separate... incentive to the guards within your cell block in order to free you." He says it all as though he is reporting officially to a commanding officer but his eyes are glassy as he speaks. Spock's downfall as a Vulcan has always been his eyes because they are so emotive even when the rest of him is not. "During this time, they would not give us information on your physical state nor where you were being kept. For many members of the crew, such as Doctor McCoy, this was very troublesome. However, while difficult, the dealings have been productive. We received you and there is peace between Frane and the Federation. I believe this is an example of a-- what is your turn of phrase?-- win-win situation?"

There's no surge of love for his crew, no sudden overwhelming sense of belonging which he thought knowing would bring. Instead, there is a twinge as something more drops into the pool of guilt and adds definition to the exhaustion that lines every crew member's face. They've all been driven to their limit, almost to the point of breaking, merely to bring him back. He has no doubt he is loved but the price paid for that love is difficult to view. Really, it's the Franians who brought this upon everyone but he is the catalyst so some of the fault does lie with him. His silence alerts Spock to his contemplation and the Vulcan leans forward in his seat so that he's very close to Kirk.

"Not one person here regrets it, Jim," he states. "While I may be inaccurate, I... feel I can speak for the whole crew in this matter."

He blinks. "Wow, Spock, that's... very... uh-- human of you."

"Forgive me, I'm afraid the strain has affected my ability to separate my emotions from my reason," Spock says immediately but it's a lie that Kirk sees right through. "It will not happen again."

"Right, of course," Jim agrees. "You'll keep things under control until I get back?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

But even if the truth hurts, knowing starts his final stage of recovery. As he eats that night, something shifts in him, covering up the guilt and displacement. It's lumpy and a poor fit but it covers the open wounds so that the raw emotions are soothed. Even so, it does not get any easier to be around Libby and he realizes that's mostly because she coddles him which he couldn't stand even as a child. But, as he deals with her and plays his first game of chess with Chekov since he's gotten back, he notes that the tiny layer thickens up and stabilizes him. It's not pretty but it's at least solid enough that when Chekov wipes the floor with him, he can return the boy genius's grin. When Sulu drops in, a strange looking potted creature in his hands, it's enough to withstand a 'no sex with plants' joke his expense and a lack of diplomatic tactics joke at Sulu's. There's still tension in the air with some people-- like the ever distant Chapel-- but even that's bearable as his strength builds. His first real food-- well, real is a very subjective word as it's plain scrambled eggs and toast with only the slightest bit of butter-- is served to him by Chapel because she's the only nurse on duty. She is all business, as per usual, checking out his stats, entering things into her PADD and waiting, somewhat impatiently, for him to partake of his meal. Without thinking, he messes with her, taking tiny, slow bites, chewing on the fork in between and smirking as her annoyance grows.

"So, I've been gone a while," he begins conversationally. "Does this mean I get a welcome home kiss, Chris? Maybe a bit of a cuddle?"

She rolls her eyes. "Captain, the day that I give you a cuddle is the day Doctor McCoy marries Commander Spock. Now, eat your goddamn breakfast so I can get on with my work."

And with her normal bitch tone, she reassures him that he's home. No, things aren't exactly the same but they never could be. While most of his beatings were physical and most of his scars visible, the whole crew took on their own injuries and marks. They went into the situation foolish, young and naive and came out battle smart veterans. It was not like the Narada Incident where all it took was tactics and an ass load of luck; this was the real deal diplomatic bullshit that they'd been told about but never expected to run into. They'd been forced to grow up as a crew, not like the coddled private school kid who gets his or her first job at eighteen and never wants, but like the eldest child from a down-on-their-luck family who not only gets himself to school but takes care of his two younger siblings and works two jobs. He's aware that its going to be a while before they can laugh easily again and months before they can all look back and realize that this was a good thing. It'll be a long time before Bones snarls at him in seriousness, even if he's being an idiot, months before Spock lets him do an away mission without finding a reason to tag along and years, many years, before any of them work that hard at diplomacy again. But they're strong. It'll happen. Someday.

It's the last day for him in the sick bay and he's sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs, impatient to walk the halls of the Enterprise. He's on strict rest still-- not too much time out of bed-- but at least tonight he'll sleep in his own room. It'll be the first time in four months for him to do so and he's looking forward to sinking into the mattress and piling the pillows around him. He wrinkles his nose as Bones waves his magic wand around, focusing on his midriff and then moving up to his head and each of his arms. A little huff of irritation escapes him and it catches McCoy's ears. His friend glares at him-- not a glare of worry, or a glare of 'I hate what they've done to you' but his typical 'Damn-it-Jim-I'm-a-doctor-not-a-machine-and-I'm-doing-my-job'-- and snaps, "I'll keep you in here another week if you don't sit still."

"Gonna miss me?" He grins.

"Like a frigging headache," McCoy grumbles. Even the weariness behind the tone doesn't change the old camaraderie. He knows that underneath all the grey hair and lines is old Bones. He's just covered in scars and it's going to take good events to help them fade. And that's okay, because he foresees plenty of positive happenings in the future. McCoy pauses over his arm, putting the tricorder aside so he can test the flexibility and study the raised line. "When do you want me to take care of that for you? It shouldn't take too long to get rid of it."

He studies the crisscross white lines of the rough stitches and the raised pink lumps where the healing took a bad turn. Yeah, it's ugly and not something he thinks the girls would find sexy. He pulls his arm away. "You know what, Bones. I think I'm gonna keep it."

McCoy frowns at him for the briefest of seconds and then it's clear he understands. His lips twist into a half-hearted smile. "Okay, Jim."

And things, he decides as he struts out of the sick bay, are going to be just that.


End file.
